Not Fair, Poor Avon
by Sally Mn
Summary: An update on Ye Hoary SF/Sex-in-Space Cliche...


**Not Fair, Poor Avon... **

At the all-too-familiar, and far-too-long-in-coming, hum of the teleport, the man in the bed sat up, dark eyes glittering furiously in a pale - a very pale - a stunningly silvery-pale - face.

_"It's about time!"_ he snarled at his 'rescuers', both of whom were gaping at him. "What the _hell_ kept you?"

"Umm... Avon?" The fearless and normally unflappable rebel leader sought for words, taking in the platinum-shot crimson sheets, the ornate, decadent - rather debauched, actually - decor - the huge circular bed, mirrored ceiling and battery of sleek, exotic equipment he probably didn't want to investigate... and the single manacle and ornate chain holding his computer expert to the bed.

His tastefully unclothed - or to be blunt, totally nude but delicately silver-tinted all over - computer expert.

The sought-for words didn't come.

Jenna had been right. Poor Avon had _not_ been abducted for his brilliant mind and technological skills, and Blake knew he was never ever going to hear the end of it, especially _as_ Jenna - the other abductee of choice, or so Orac said - had escaped the Treasure Hunters, and he hadn't. The fact that the rest of Blake's crew hadn't either, and had been just scooped up as extra general labour, was no consolation. Well, not to Avon, and Blake could very clearly - even starkly - see why.

Snarling something indistinguishable but doubtlessly filthy at him, Avon went to stand, throwing back the platinum-shot crimson sheets as he did so. Jenna's eyes widened as the slippery silk slid further than he'd expected, and he jerked it back with a scorching glare.

"Umm... Avon?" Blake started again, his voice aiming for detached and leaderlike and not - quite - getting there. "Sorry, Avon, but the teleport wouldn't reach the - errr - Treasure Level, it's called. The Treasure being..." He groped again for words, gave up, and waved a weakly apologetic hand. "It seemed to be blocked - the teleport, that is. So we had to rescue Cally from where she'd been put to work in the Administrative quarters since she'd let me know, telepathically, that she knew which computer controlled the blocking mechanism."

Jenna joined in, while blatantly eyeing the treasure refusing to display himself. "And then rescue Gan from where he'd been locked in the slave quarters, so that he could tell us where to find Vila."

"And then rescue Vila from his room in the entertainer's level."

"The other sort of entertainment," Jenna murmured, her gaze becoming... yes, predatory. Avon glowered at her, and pulled the silk around himself closer. "So is _this_ what makes top credit these days?"

"Jenna," Blake interrupted. After all, this whole fiasco was not fair on poor Avon - or on the five people he would undoubtedly make pay. Painfully. "We had to rescue Vila so that he could deal with the lock to the computer room."

"And finally -"

"You finally came for the one in the most immediate danger," Avon spat. "Of course. The place is probably crawling with off-duty military officers, Blake, what if any of them had recognised me?"

"They probably weren't looking -" Jenna broke off with a yelp, as a hasty and heavy rebel boot landed on her toe.

"Well," The owner of the boot glanced at her apologetically, "we're here now. Where are your clothes?"

"Where do you think?" Avon spat. "That's my third pair of leather trousers ruined."

"Ahh, I see." All too well, actually.

"Shredded."

"_Shredded_?"

"Shredded... and no more questions, Blake."

Blake swallowed, nearly choking on at least six of them. "Of course not," he went on casually, while wondering how to get everyone out of the teleport room before they got there. Poor Avon looked mad enough to kill someone with his bare hands. "Jenna, get the manacle off."

She bent down to look - rather too closely for Avon, who twitched the sheet closer and met her sparkling eyes with murder in his own. "Probably not. We'll need special tools." She looked round brightly. "I don't think we can adapt any of these. Avon, where in the cosmos would someone put _that_ -"

"Never mind," Blake said with difficulty, determinedly _not_ looking. Or thinking. Or anything.

"You do _not_ want to know," Avon hissed.

"But isn't all knowledge -?"

"Blake, get this chain off and _get me out of here_!"

Blake tried not to swallow his tongue along with the words he knew he shouldn't even think let alone say, and nodded to Jenna, then moved closer, very gingerly, to their explosive 'treasure' as she took out the cutter filched from Vila and cut through the chain. "Avon, tell me the truth," he murmured, trying to snap a teleport bracelet around Avon's wrists while desperately not looking _anywhere_, "did anyone -?"

"Not. As. Yet." Avon spoke through gritted teeth, daring his fearless but not brainless leader to say another word.

"The preparation," Jenna spoke with an air of gleeful authority, "takes several days, Orac says. Even for a professional. And Avon might be a natural, but he's not experienced." She paused, snapping the last link, and went on cheerfully. "As far as we know, of course -?"

Luckily, Blake's own gun was just out of Avon's reach - equally luckily, _when_ he reached the silk slithered almost completely off. Blake hadn't realised the skin colouring was...

"Oh, you're silver _everywhere_!"

And if Avon didn't kill his pilot, _he_ might; she was enjoying this far too much.

As was he, for that matter, for all he was trying not to.

"You'll have to tell us how they did it," Jenna went on.

"Why?" Avon spoke sardonically, obviously longing to hit back, "were you wanting a career change?"

Jenna, suddenly remembering what Orac had said - and that neither Orac nor Vila would keep that little morsel from her now-naked nemesis, went as red as Avon's sheets.

"That's enough," Blake said hastily. "Orac will know how to get it off." He hoped. Though it really was unique. And unusual. And very, very eye-catching. No wonder they called this the Treasure Level, with this very unique and unusual and illegal 'treasure'...

Avon took a deep breath, dragging the remnants of his dignity - and the edges of the sheet - together, and stood up. "Let's get out of here."

Blake nodded and gave the word. "And Cally, tell Vila to stay on the flight deck." _I'm having enough trouble with my Golden and Silver... Treasures here. _

The teleport hum sounded again, and he relaxed slightly. A perfect 'rescue', Avon from a fate worse than something he really didn't want to think about, and couldn't stop thinking about, and that everyone was going to think about to the exclusion of rebels and revolutions and anything else for some time. And as they vanished, he hoped - he _really_ hoped - that Avon hadn't heard Jenna's last, murmured words as the silk sheet slipped yet again.

"Nice arse... Silver Alpha."

But he wouldn't bet on it.

**-****the end-**

(Done for an acronym challenge, I got N F P and A.. and this was the result. And yes, for those who have read the Bizarro 7 zines - an off-the-wall part of B7 print history - I've unblushingly genuflected to and, umm, updated an idea based on a classic cliche - Avon's brief and somewhat self-explanatory career as a - you guessed it - 'Silver Alpha':)


End file.
